OPTIMISM

.

Let me tell you a story. There was a boy. Since elementary school, he had made a series of mistakes in life, and despite his inner depth, he was never accepted by his peers. This disacceptance made him reflect on what he had done wrong and decided to slowly correct those mistakes. By the time he entered high school, he was a completely different person.

In high school, however, the situation repeated itself. He was the target of malicious taunts and unpleasant jokes, and the final straw came when he walked with his hated friends through the town square. In the square, a festival was taking place, and the Idiot of the Year competition was taking place. His malicious friends without hesitation nominated him, and he won. He took the stage with a sour face, and the people gathered at the festival started laughing and throwing rotten tomatoes at him. However, instead of laughing, or at least maintaining the appearance of having a good time, he burst into tears. This only intensified the audience's laughter, and a local television camera was trained on him. Since the recording from this part of the event was so funny, it was quickly distributed to various television stations, causing all of Poland to laugh at the Idiot of the Year.

Our hero, however, wasn't so quick to laugh. He thought he'd managed to eliminate his flaws and start over—but it turned out nothing had changed. He fell into depression.

After a few days, it was discovered with horror that he had committed suicide by throwing himself into a large cauldron of sulfuric acid in one of the local factories. The news spread throughout the country. Some blamed others for the death, others were ashamed, and still others defiantly said they didn't feel sorry for him at all. But the fact was, the Idiot of the Year was dead.

-----------------

Nine years later, in the United States, a star was born. A young, ambitious lawyer from California, with an optimistic smile on his face and a poor financial background. By small steps, he climbed the career ladder, securing increasingly interesting offers from increasingly wealthy clients. His secret was that he could always win over a jury. He had that "something" that would make him go far in his profession.

And so he did.

On his twenty-fifth birthday, he received a job offer from a prestigious New York firm. He felt like the main character in the movie "The Devil's Advocate," but he knew perfectly well that his gift wasn't a curse, but rather a gift from Heaven, which had long been favorable to him.

However, ever since he took up one of the thousands of offices in a New York skyscraper, his luck seemed to have deserted him.

His new client had a score to settle with the Mafia and wanted to clear his name. However, he lacked sufficient evidence to put the real criminals behind bars, so he was left solely to the jury's verdict. Being wealthy and willing to pay handsomely to distance himself from the Mafia, he offered the young lawyer a staggering million dollars to convince the jury of his point. The young lawyer accepted without hesitation, because not only was it the first time in ages he had the opportunity to do honest work—putting criminals in jail—not defending them—but he also stood to receive a whopping million dollars! So when the case came up for hearing, he immediately prepared his speech. Meanwhile, the criminal organization against which the lawsuit had been filed was shaken to its foundations. Ever since it was known who would prosecute the case, the gangsters had no illusions about the outcome. So they decided to get rid of the embarrassing lawyer, and then his client.

The long-awaited day arrived – the day of the trial. The morning looked wonderful: the sun was shining high overhead, and the noise from the New York streets, as usual, didn't bother our lawyer at all. He arose with a cheerful smile on his face and welcomed the postman, who brought him a new issue of the Times every morning, more graciously than ever. This day promised to be exceptionally beautiful for him – this was the day of his life's court case. Fresh and rested, he briskly left his apartment in a New York tenement building and ran down the stairs, humming a familiar tune. However, the charm was shattered when, after leaving the building where he lived, he entered a dark alley leading to the street and found a black Ford. Two burly men got out and headed straight for him. Mafia! At first he thought about running away, but then he realized that these two would catch him anywhere, and he wouldn't be a coward in the face of death. So, without the slightest resistance, he allowed himself to be pushed into the large trunk and set off with the two gangsters for their 'last ride.'

When they reached the site—a seashore culminating in a rocky cliff—he was pulled from the car. A glance was enough for him to realize the death he would suffer—being thrown into a cliff. Unfortunately, his death was not to be so rosy. A few minutes later, two other Fords arrived: from one emerged several more powerfully built gangsters with shovels, and from the other, an elegantly dressed man, most likely one of the men responsible for running the mafia business. Why had he come here? The answer was simple: he had come to witness the death of his tormentor. The men who had exited the car, holding shovels, set them aside, opened the trunk, and pulled out a metal basin and materials needed for mixing mortar. "Concrete shoes." While the boys were busy mixing mortar, the would-be prosecutor looked into the face of his tormentor. With his immortal smile, he said, "What a beautiful day!" and looked up at the sky. At this, the mafia boss only laughed. "This is your last day," he replied. The lawyer didn't respond, just stared at the horizon. When the gangsters were ready with their preparations, their boss asked our hero if he had any last wishes, and he replied that he did: in the final moments of his life... he would like to speak with the boss in private. The surprise that spread across the torturers' faces quickly turned to laughter, but a conversation ensued. The boss and the lawyer moved some distance away from the others and began their conversation. The first hour passed... the second... the third... and the two continued to talk—with no end in sight! Finally, after five hours, they ended. With unspeakable surprise, the "mafia henchmen" received the news that there would be no execution, and the man would be taken to his home. However, surprise turned to anger, and then to bitterness, when it became clear the decision was irrevocable. They dropped the lawyer off at his home and went on their way.

-----------------------------------

The next day, a scandal would likely have erupted over the young mafia prosecutor's failure to appear at his trial, but the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center ensured that everyone forgot about the case for a long time. Our lawyer arrived at work shortly before the first explosion. He was a bit flustered by the fact that he hadn't shown up and wasn't sure if his new boss would believe the kidnapping. He spent a long time trying to figure out what to do about it, so he didn't pay much attention to the explosion in the neighboring skyscraper. However, when he heard a loud bang and the ceiling began to collapse on his head, he ran screaming for the door. People were already gathering behind the door, asking each other what was happening. From then on, events unfolded rapidly. The evacuation, running firefighters, and screaming women—that was the last thing he remembered, even though three hours had passed between the second impact and the moment when "everything calmed down."

I was one of the firefighters who arrived only after both towers had collapsed. It was then, while walking around looking for the wounded, that I met him. He was dying, but he smiled at me nonetheless and encouraged me to listen to what he had to say.

That's how I learned his story.

His first words were to tell me a secret. Then he said something that made me smile (because I couldn't bring myself to say anything more when surrounded by wounded and suffering people). And how would you react if a stranger said with complete seriousness, "I am the Idiot of the Year"? Exactly! But then, from the very author of these events, I learned the whole story. You're probably wondering: how is this possible, if the Idiot of the Year is dead? My interlocutor explained it to me this way:

As I returned from the market, covered in rotten tomatoes, I wondered: why? What have I done that you punish me like this, God? Of course, I didn't hear an answer, but the laughter of passing couples filled the silence left by the question. Then a feeling of depression gripped me – it was the worst day of my life. After returning home, I bathed and stood in front of the mirror to shave. I looked at my face and... saw something. I noticed that despite all the unpleasantness and humiliation from people I knew and loved, there was an expression of optimism on my face. My insides were destroyed, my life was gone, but despite all this, this detail in my face made me feel different. A spark of hope ignited within me. I thought this gift should be put to good use. And then I made a crazy decision: I would run away from home. I would run away from this country. I would run away from my life. But to escape my life, I had to truly lose it—so the only option was to fake suicide. I knew I couldn't do it alone—and that's where I started to worry. But who would help me? And how could I keep this "someone" from telling anyone? After a moment's thought, a brilliant plan came to me. I didn't know if it would work or not—but after all, I had nothing left to lose, so I decided to try.

The next morning—it was a Saturday—I went to church to confess. This time, however, I made an exception, going to the confessional where our family priest was sitting. I always avoided confessing to him—because it was so awkward to confess to a priest I knew, but then the situation forced me to go to him. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. When the priest told me to confess my sins, I said I intended to commit suicide. And the priest was supposed to help me with that. The plan was inhumane, and more than one priest would have chased me out of the confessional. But I suspect it was "that something" in my face that made him agree.

So we got to work. That same evening, I investigated when and who the last acid tanks left the factory, while the priest was simultaneously contacting the Polish Curia in California. The next day, the priest traveled to Gdańsk (the other end of Poland), where he visited local morgues looking for a man who could replace me as the suicide bomber. When the body arrived at noon on Monday, we packed it into a barrel, and that same evening, after the last employee had left, I began the operation. First, a priest I knew, I brought the barrel back with me—and then we parted ways. No one wanted witnesses. Once I was sure he had left and there were no other people nearby, I pulled the man out of the barrel and carried him on my back to the spot where I had previously broken the window. After entering the factory, I was guided by the stench of acid, because if I used a flashlight, someone passing by might call the police—and I wanted my friend to have time to dissolve. When I finally did what I had to, I felt like a murderer. I threw my friend into a vat of acid. But after a moment, I remembered the day I'd been chosen Idiot of the Year and thought it would be even better if others felt remorse.

Another problem was getting across the ocean—to the States. Planes were obscenely expensive, and besides, I couldn't travel since... I was dead! So I wandered around the airport, pretending to be homeless, unsure how to get on board. Finally, I found a solution—a plane being repaired sat on the side of the road, which no one was currently looking at. Sure, I could have boarded—but what good would that have done me? There was no telling when we'd take off, and I'd be starving. So I decided to visit my priest friend one last time. So I did. When I arrived at the rectory incognito, he initially thought I was just another hungry drug addict. It didn't take long, however, before he realized it was me. He welcomed me in and gave me a decent portion of the food I desperately needed for the plane ride. When I returned to the airport, some people were already milling around the plane, but I managed to find a suitable seat before more arrived. The plane took off the next morning and landed in California that afternoon. I felt a little sick during the flight, but my hiding place—below deck—forced me to remain completely silent. Once we landed, I stayed below deck until the cleaners boarded the plane, and then, while I had the steps to the plane, I emerged from below deck and ran. My legs, so rested by then, were faster than any of the airport workers, and after crossing the fence, they saw me so much.

Then I found myself at the curia. A new identity awaited me there—I have no idea how they arranged it, but they did. Apparently, they reported that my parents weren't registered with the office—so I couldn't be there either. Based on that, I was given a new life in less than a week. There, at the curia in California, I studied under the supervision of priests and didn't attend public school, but took private lessons. That's how I lived until my twenty-fifth birthday, which I celebrated about two months ago. Today... today, I don't think anything will save me from death. Not even my optimism.

You're probably wondering why I involved a priest in this whole affair—it's simple. The priest had to keep the seal of confession, as did the entire California curia, so they certainly didn't hear anything. Nothing from me either—so the matter has remained secret until now. I only feel sorry for the poor man who helped me escape my own country. A few weeks later, he was imprisoned for pedophilia and necrophilia because someone in the Gdańsk morgue had developed unhealthy suspicions and photographed him, and he couldn't tell the truth, precisely because of the seal of confession. He died in his cell. I didn't even let anyone close to me know the truth, because then it would have quickly come to light. For years, I've reproached myself in bad moments, for the tears of my parents and relatives, and for the suffering and death of that priest, who had no part in this malicious antics, yet I condemned them to suffer. However, my situation demanded a consistent and irreversible decision. I don't regret making it. Some must suffer so that others can enjoy a little joy. Such is life. This is one

of the reasons why—ever since I've lived here in the States—I've been afraid someone would expose me and the demons of my past would return. Now I'm dying. You can tell all my compatriots that today – September 11, 2001 – the Idiot of the Year truly died.

And after these words, he spoke a few warm and comforting words to me, then smiled and closed his eyes. He died. Today, as the second anniversary of that event approaches, I still feel the dust, hear the moans and laments, and in my hands I hold a man who triumphed over fate. Who deceived the entire world and began a new life. His sudden outburst of self-confidence on the evening of the most humiliating experience of his life has led him to this moment. And when I sometimes can't sleep at night, I remember his face at the moment of death. He looked like a man who hadn't truly died, but had fallen asleep and was having a beautiful, heavenly dream.

May your beautiful dream last forever, my friend!